


Anonymous

by bakedgoldfish



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Episode: s03e22 Posse Comitatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-15
Updated: 2003-02-15
Packaged: 2019-05-15 06:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14784857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakedgoldfish/pseuds/bakedgoldfish
Summary: "She wasn't the only one who was hurting."





	Anonymous

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Anonymous**

**by:** Baked Goldfish 

**Category:** CJ, Ron Butterfield  
**Rating:** TEEN, for angst  
**Spoilers:** Posse Comitatus  
**Summary:** "She wasn't the only one who was hurting."  
**Disclaimer:** So not mine. Please don't sue.  


This city did not know her. 

This city, far more populous than the one she called home now, this city bustled past her as she sat on a nameless, Marks-a-lot smeared bench. She was relatively unknown here, except to the few who avidly watched C-Span and CNN, and nobody here would ask why the White House Press Secretary was crying in an evening gown on a bench near Broadway. 

So when someone sat down next to her, she didn't even spare him a glance. But when he put his hand on hers, and said her name, she shook and stared at him. The first things she saw was the earphone, and the tuxedo; for a moment, he was- 

"CJ?" Ron Butterfield regarded her with guarded eyes; it was the usual look that graced his countenance, one of detachment and professionalism. He couldn't afford to let his guard down yet, not with her. 

A knot tightened in her stomach. "What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice roughened and weak. 

He shrugged, and looked up at the buildings across the street; they were covered with posters of Broadway and off-Broadway plays, and graffiti. "The President's secure. We were looking for you." 

She turned her eyes down to the sidewalk as she wiped her tears and smeared her makeup. "Well," she began, regaining her voice, "I'd like to be alone right now, if you don't mind." 

"I know," he said, removing his hand from hers. "But you're gonna have to come back soon. We need to move out on schedule." 

"I'll come back," she snapped. She pulled her wrap tighter around her shoulders and stared at the sidewalk. "I'll be back in a few minutes, I just ..." 

He nodded. "I'll go, then." 

Something in his voice caught her, a momentary lapse in his professionalism, a catch at the end of his words, and she brushed her fingers against his wrist before he could get up to leave. "Did you - did you see him?" 

"They asked me to identify his ... " He hesitated, and it was more noticeable than it should have been. "They asked me to come down and identify the body." 

Her fingers twined with his, and she leaned forward to see his guarded eyes. "What are you doing here?" she asked again. "I know you said the President's secure, but you could've sent anyone for me. Or better yet, called me." 

He shook his head, and said, "I don't think far enough ahead to call." 

"I don't believe that." 

He shrugged again, and looked at the passing cars. "I wanted to make sure for myself that you were okay." 

"For yourself?" For a moment, she was almost offended - he barely knew her; she was just another staffer to him, and he was just a Secret Service agent to her. He had no right to see her just "for himself," and she began to pull away from him. 

He felt her hand slipping away from his, and he looked at her. "He would've wanted me to." 

The walls in his eyes dropped, and her hand lingered a moment as she realized that, though he had no right, perhaps he had a responsibility. "How long?" she finally asked, her voice soft and almost unheard through the din of the city. 

"I'm sorry?" 

"How long have you known him?" 

He swallowed, and blinked as if that would protect him from her eyes. "College," he said finally. "We went through ROTC together, served in the Chicago police department together." 

"And joined the Secret Service together?" He nodded, and she dropped her gaze. "So you guys were close, huh?" 

"We look out for each other," he said. "Looked. Looked out." He glanced around, as if checking the area for potential attackers, and stood up. "I should go. Head back when you're ready. We won't leave without you." 

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice beginning to break again. She wasn't the only one who was hurting, and that thought made her hurt even more. 

He looked at the cityscape around them before turning back to her. "He was a Secret Service agent. We know the risks involved in the job." 

"But he wasn't doing his job," she said. "He was ... I don't know, he was buying something." 

He bit his tongue before he could tell her what Simon had been buying. "He was protecting someone. That was his job." 

She looked away, and the shadows hid the tears that slipped out. "It really wasn't his job." 

"I know." 

"Ron?" At the sound of his name, he looked at her; she was barely holding back her emotions, as if this city would care if she let them spill forth. As if he wouldn't care. "Will you tell me about him?" 

She didn't know him well enough to notice the drop of his shoulders, and the twitch of his moustache as he resigned himself to the fact that Simon was just a memory, a person he once knew and no longer a guy he'd get beers with after their shifts were over. "Sure," he said, tipping his head in the slightest nod. 

She knew him well enough, though, to notice the hesitance before he answered her. "Maybe not, you know, right now, but ... " 

He nodded and turned his back on her, and before she could say anymore, he had already melted into the crowd. It was his job to disappear, to blend in, and to be swept out of sight. 

Pedestrians swerved around him as he walked in a straight line, and he kept his eyes locked on some point in front of him. He felt his throat begin to close up, felt the burn in his eyes that preceded those rare tears, and he swiped a hand across his face before he began to look where he was going. The theater was across the street, and around the corner, and by him, people walked to their destinations. He knew Simon would probably be no more than a footnote in the local news, a freak coincidence to be reported on, and the people around him would never remember his name. He knew that, had it happened in Washington, the situation would be exactly the same. A man who'd saved countless lives, reduced to a postscript. 

He reached the theater, and found a quiet, safe corner in which he could let his guard down for the moment. Sagging onto a bench, he realized that it didn't matter if anyone found him there, and it didn't matter if he looked a little more war-weary than usual. 

This city did not know him. 

-end- 


End file.
